Hour 23 (20 page)
“Yeah,” Jim said. “Us men.”
Jim walked over to the fridge, opened it, and stuck his hand deep inside. Some glass clanked, and when he stepped back from the door Nolan could see that he was holding two bottles of beer.
“Well,” Jim said, raising his eyebrows and returning to the table, “it’ll be a long night, we might as well enjoy it.”
He set one beer in front of his seat and the other in front of Nolan. Nolan stared at the beverage for a moment, unsure of how to react.
“What’s the matter?” Jim asked. “Not your brand?”
Nolan shook his head. “It’s not that, it’s just—is this some kind of test?”
Jim laughed. “Have the damn beer, kid.”
Nolan unscrewed the cap of the bottle hesitantly, then took a sip and grimaced.
“That’s the look I like to see,” Jim said with a chuckle. He took a sip off his own bottle then dug deep into the storage bin between his legs. After a second or two of fishing around, he pulled out a tattered deck of cards.
“What do we do now?” Nolan asked.
Jim shuffled the deck of cards. “Well, first I’m going to deal—and then, we’re going to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
Jim looked at the kitchen door, and then over at the door in the living room. He cut the deck and started passing cards between himself and Nolan. “Hopefully, nothing.”
Dr. Merrill napped on the couch in his office. He made it absolutely clear that he should only be disturbed if one of three things were to happen: the arrival of a new patient, a fire, or when a member of creep ward approached their twenty-third hour of infection.
It was hard for Paul to fall asleep over the cheers that boomed throughout the hospital. The general attitude of all involved was that the past twenty-four hours were a war—one that was won with unexpected ease.
Even as reports poured in from New York confirming the sudden demise of those citizens afflicted by the unusual virus, Paul could not feel relief. His patients—whatever they were—were dying. Rapidly. Before a cure could be found, before aid could be administered, they were dropping like proverbial flies.
For Agent Litchfield and his crew, the deaths of a few infected—as disheartening as it may be—were not enough to quash the excitement caused by the near miss of a large scale epidemic. As far as Litchfield and the other CDC staff were concerned, the world had just walked on the razor’s edge of extinction—and miraculously, humanity had triumphed.
A quick, loud knock rattled the thin door of Paul’s office.
“Doctor,” Nurse Sherri called. “Doctor, it’s almost time again.”
Paul rubbed his eyes, then flicked his wrist. He groaned as he checked the time. Though he spent the day trying to stay strong and hardened as an example for the rest of the staff, the hours were taking their toll. Even Sherri’s sweet, pleasant voice had become irritating and unwelcomed.
“Doctor?” Sherri repeated, louder this time. She gently turned the knob before her. Paul yanked the door open. The knob flew out of Sherri’s delicate hand and startled her. He stood in the door frame, hair amiss, his white coat wrinkled and unkempt. Though his eyes were narrow and squinted, Sherri could easily see how bloodshot they had become.
“Come in,” Paul said, extending his arm.
“I brought you some coffee,” Sherri said, handing the doctor a paper cup. She took a seat in front of his desk.
“Thank you,” he said, taking a seat opposite the young nurse. “I’ve known you a long time now, Sherri. I can tell when something’s bothering you. Out with it.”
“I don’t want to upset you.”
“Luckily for you, I am physically incapable of getting anymore upset today than I already am.”
“Three more came in while you were out.”
Paul shook his head.
“It’s just,” Sherri continued, “no one wanted to wake you. We all knew you needed the rest.”
“What else?”
Sherri looked at the clock on the wall. “Damian Palmer is approaching his twenty-second and a half hour since infection. They want you up on creep ward.”
Paul nodded. “And yet, I sense there’s even more.”
Sherri smiled politely. “Two agents from Washington will be landing soon. They’ve asked to speak to you personally.”
“Agents from where?”
“I’m not…sure.”
“Okay,” Paul said, standing up from his chair. “Very well then. Thank you for the coffee and the update.” Paul looked at Sherri. She kept a thin smile on at all times, but it failed at disguising her exhaustion. Paul pointed at the couch. “You should have a rest.”
Sherri cocked her head. “I couldn’t.”
“I insist,” Paul said. “You’ve been here just as long as I have and you’ve had half as much rest.”
“I’ll think about it,” Sherri said as she followed the doctor out of the office.
The two strolled down the hall together, approaching the elevator that led to creep ward.
“I know all of this saddens you, doctor, but try to think of the positive,” Sherri said. “They’ve started evacuations in Riverside and even some southern areas of East Violet. By sunrise tomorrow, we’ll all be shipping out of here. Everything is going to turn out okay.”
“You are a sweet girl,” Paul said, pressing the call button for the elevator. “Stay down here—keep those Washington agents, whoever they are, occupied while the CDC throws another victory party for Damian. I can’t juggle them and new faces, yes?”
“Sure thing, Dr. Merrill.”
The elevator dinged and the steel doors slid open before Paul. He nodded and stepped aboard, plugged his key in, hit the button for creep ward and smiled as the doors slowly closed between Sherri and him.
When the elevator doors reopened, two nurses waiting nearby assisted the doctor into a yellow Hazmat suit. Down the hall, swarms of doctors, nurses, and CDC agents hustled back and forth. A clock in the creep ward hallway clicked.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Every swing of the second hand was heavy and ominous, until it was the only sound the doctor found himself focusing on. The hour and minute hands pointed at 8:43. Damian Palmer came in around 10 PM the night before. In a matter of moments he would near his twenty-third hour of infection. The staff at East Violet Memorial were bursting with anticipation to see what would happen next.
Fully suited, Paul pushed forward down the hallway towards creep ward. A crowd had formed around the foot of Damian’s bedside. One doctor held a camera, recording the patient’s weak and ghastly movements. Another doctor stood by with a clipboard, feverishly scribbling notes. Agent Litchfield stood near the corner of the room, his hands flailing about as he talked excitedly into an ear piece, his visor fogging and clearing with each enthusiastic breath.
Paul picked up one of several clipboards hooked to the foot of Damian’s bed, all of which detailed the nature of his injuries and why he was administered. Scanning the pages of notes, it felt to Paul as if something didn’t add up. A puzzle piece was missing.
“Who else was brought in with Damian?” Paul asked. The commotion around the gurney continued to rumble.
Paul cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Who else was brought in alongside this patient?” he asked, practically shouting.
The room hushed. A voice unseen in the crowd piped up with “no one else, doctor.”
“Well,” Paul went on, flipping through pages of notes. “He was in a severe, head-on collision. Unless that collision was with a tree—which it was not, the police report identifies another vehicle—there should be another patient with him. Where’s the driver of the other vehicle?”
The doctors and nurses in the room murmured and flipped through their own pages of notes, none of them able to give Paul a clear answer. Finally, Litchfield ended his phone call and hollered over the low roar of voices, “There was no other driver.”
Litchfield approached the space in front of Damian where Paul was standing. “I spoke to the cop who brought him in—the other car fled.”
“Any clue as to what the make of the other car was?” Paul asked.
“Some witnesses said that they watched a white Range Rover speed off, apparently,” Litchfield said.
Paul thought hard. East Violet was a prosperous town, and a Range Rover wasn’t an uncommon enough luxury vehicle for any particular individual to come to mind. Paul felt like he was close to something—
Grargh! Urch! Blargh!
Damian moaned and pulled at his restraints. He squirmed and contorted in the straps that bound him to his hospital bed. The skin on his face clung tight; his dry, chapped lips smacked open and shut at the air in front of him. His eyes floated around aimlessly, often times in directions independent of one another. Every so often they would roll back in his head entirely. Bits of flesh flaked away from his body and clumped together on either side of him.
Damian let out a guttural howl that shocked some of the nurses standing close to him. Several of them leapt back in fear. More hissing. More howling. Eventually, Damian pulled up so hard with his left arm that the limb separated at the elbow joint. The severed piece of appendage lay motionless on the gurney, still strapped down by the wrist, while Damian flailed around a bloodied stump that gushed with a pulpy, viscous, black ooze.
Thump.
A nurse in the back of the room fainted and collapsed onto the floor; a nearby doctor helped her to her feet and brought her out of the room.
Damian fixated his eyes on Paul. The two stared deeply into one another’s eyes, Paul’s expressionless and Damian’s full of rage. All at once, the shrieking stopped. Damian’s split arm dropped lifelessly beside him. His head rolled to the side as a dribble of spit and blood leaked onto his pillow.
“Twenty-three hours, almost to the Goddamn minute!” Litchfield cheered from across the room.
Paul turned back for the hallway that led to the elevator. He trudged along, shoulders drooped.
I should be happy, I suppose.
Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had failed. Failed Marc, failed Damian, and before long the entire wing of creep ward would perish in spite of his efforts. He and Agent Litchfield had tried different combinations of antiviral medications, all of which had no effect. Out of desperation, Paul even tried several different antibiotics, despite the fact that any first day medical student should know they are useless in combatting viral infections.
Stripped of his hazmat suit and having passed through decontamination, Paul rode the elevator from creep ward back to the floor below. When the doors opened they revealed a thin, petite woman and a tall, chubby man with a messy goatee.
“Dr. Merrill,” the female figure said, extending a hand, “we’ve heard so much about you. My name is Stephanie Perry, and this is my colleague, Matthew Ritchie. We’ve just landed and we’d love to ask you some questions.”
“I didn’t catch where you’re from?” Paul said as he shook Stephanie’s hand, then Matthew’s.
“We’re from Washington,” Matthew said plainly.
“Uh-huh,” Paul said, “my nurse mentioned that earlier. Which agency are you here on behalf of? I suppose that was the question I meant to ask.”
Matthew opened a briefcase and pulled out a slip of paper crammed edge-to-edge with legalese. At the bottom of the document was a judge’s signature.
“We are not at liberty to discuss that,” Matthew said, “but please rest assured that we are here in good faith and in the best interest of this hospital, as well as the city of East Violet.”
Paul handed the paper back to Matthew then crossed his arms.
“Please,” Stephanie said. “We have full jurisdiction here, and I must wholeheartedly emphasize what my partner just said about having your hospital’s best interests in mind. Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.”
“And if I don’t wish to cooperate?” Paul asked.
Stephanie let out a
hmph.
“We’re on your side, doctor. But if you’d like to reexamine the document my partner just handed you, you’ll find that your cooperation would not only be appreciated, but that it is legally required.”
“Well then,” Dr. Merrill laughed. “To my office then, yes?”
Paul slumped in his office chair. Stephanie and Matthew took a seat opposite of him.
“Doctor Merrill,” Matthew said, pulling a folder from his briefcase.
“Call me Paul, please,” the doctor interrupted. “We’re all on a first-name basis here.”
“Sure,” Matthew said, combing through some papers in his folder. “I have here that you appeared on a television show three years ago—a daytime, talk show affair.”
“
The Daily Doc?”
Paul asked in disbelief. “Yes, but what has that have to do with
anything
?”
Matthew leaned back. “It was one of their highest rated episodes. You discussed the importance of vaccinating children.”
“Yes,” Paul said bluntly. “So?”
“Two months after that episode aired,” Matthew continued, “producers for
The Daily Doc
asked you back. And you accepted?”
“Yes.”
“And again the show had tremendous ratings.” Matthew examined a pie-chart that he pulled from his folder. “Six weeks after that episode aired, you were asked back
again
—”
“And I declined.”
“Do you mind explaining why?”
“I was busy working on a publication and I did not want any more distractions. I was also worried that my appearances would paint me as a doctor more interested in hosting daytime television than practicing medicine.”
“They offered you a lot of money,” Stephanie blurted.
Paul laughed. “The money wasn’t the point—please, why are we talking about
any
of this right now?”
“The viewers loved you,” Matthew continued. “Test audiences show—and don’t take offense to this data—that you were ethnic, but not
too
ethnic. A bit stern looking, but intelligent and approachable.”
“Forgive my partner for a moment,” Stephanie said. She could see the blood flowing to the surface of Paul’s face. “What we mean to say is that, in several months, you’re going to be contacted for a primetime talk show appearance. The United States government would like you to be a spokesperson for all that has happened today, given your commendable dedication to your role as a practitioner and your first hand experiences with the EV1 virus.”
Paul laughed. “Not a chance.”